


Living on Gin and Adrenaline

by Candamira, germankitty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, mention of possible dub-con, uneven chapter lengths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-08 11:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21474946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/pseuds/Candamira, https://archiveofourown.org/users/germankitty/pseuds/germankitty
Summary: Summary:Several gin-based longdrinks, an involuntarily started bar fight, and a night spent in the drunk tank with a certain Marcus Flint, are enough to send Draco Malfoy, who is already down on his luck, on a fast tailspin down Knockturn Alley. But even the bartenders on Knockturn Alley call the Aurors when things are getting too rough. But hey, you know what? Fuck Auror Harry Potter and his stupid saving-people-thing. Just fuck him. (And that’s exactly what might happen.)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49
Collections: Harry/Draco Owlpost 2019





	1. Episode 1: Gin and Tonic at The Leaky Cauldron

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melusina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melusina/gifts).

> Melusina, it was an honour and great joy to write for you. Hopefully you won’t mind Harry and Draco taking you to some dark places on Knockturn Alley. In case you will, the gin-based cocktail recipes the fic provides may come handy.
> 
> As usual, very special thanks to the mods who, year after year, make this fest the wonderful experience it always is and take care that we all get our gifts. Owlpost is one of the major highlights of the season and it’s become a cherished habit to be part of it.
> 
> **Warning:** This fic contains scenes of alcohol abuse and/or possibly impending alcoholism as well as escalating fight scenes. Also, mention of possible dub-con (if you squint).
> 
> And now - enjoy reading. Merry Christmas!

Drawing a deep, fortifying breath, Auror Harry Potter tapped his wand against the lock on the evidence room's door, stepping through with more bravado than he actually felt. His assignment for today was to transcribe Pensieve memories provided by witnesses for the cases the DMLE had worked over the weekend. It was a routine procedure, usually done by junior employees like Harry – unless it was a major felony or capital crime; those went to the senior Aurors.

Thankfully, the start-of-day briefing had mentioned none of those; Harry already knew that he'd only be dealing with about a dozen of misdemeanours and disturbances, the most serious of which were one case of minor domestic violence and two drunk-and-disorderly charges. Fairly mundane and harmless, all things considered … and a far cry from the glamorous visions of derring-do a lot of starry-eyed youngsters imagined the life of an Auror to be.

_Ugh, paperwork. Can't really blame Ron for quitting, _Harry thought wryly. _It's stuff like this that makes me think being a shopkeeper with George must be more exciting._

_Hermione would probably love it, though,_ hemused as he pulled out a chair, sat, uncapped the inkwell and set a standard dictaquill onto the top sheaf of parchment that had been provided. _Oh well, at least things were reasonably quiet._

Still, he couldn't quite banish the feeling that viewing some stranger's memories was an invasion of privacy, no matter that they'd been willingly given. Picking up the quill, he inhaled deeply once more, striving to banish the inadvertent flashback to the last time he'd used a Pensieve outside  
of training exercises.

_"Look … at … me …"_

Those three strangled words, breathed by a once-silky voice through a torn throat before it was forever silenced, still haunted him at times during sleepless nights.

Harry shook his head. Snape had died five years ago this last spring, and Harry had more or less come to terms with the revelations of those final memories. He refused to give them the power they once had.

Resolutely, he unstoppered the first vial and poured the first memory strand into the rune-carved basin. Picking up the quill, he started with jotting down the pertinent information for each case – names, dates, location and so on. Then he tapped the quill with his wand, changing to recording mode with a murmured spelland dipped his face into the swirling silvery liquid.

**°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°**

It was nearly lunchtime when Harry finally reached the last vial – the second drunk-and-disorderly case. He drained the last of the tea he'd procured earlier, cleared his throat and repeated the spell to start the transcript. _"Scriba._

"Charge: Drunk and disorderly disturbance of the peace.  
Responding Auror: Marjorie Smith-Rosier.  
Location: The Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley.  
Date: April 19, 2003; time: 10.23 pm.  
Witness/memory provided by: Hannah Abbott, publican.  
Participants: Unknown individual vs. Draco Lucius Malfoy … what the hell?"

Harry nearly swiped his mug off the table, only his still-sharp Quidditch reflexes preventing it from shattering on the floor, he was that surprised to read the name. It just wasn't _like _ Malfoy to brawl – especially not in public! He shook his head in disbelief and focused back onto his transcript, only to find that the quill had faithfully added his exclamation to the transcript. "Gah!" 

Grumbling, he crumpled up the parchment and started over. Quickly, he added 'Transcript by: Harry Potter, DMLE' and dived into the Pensieve again. After the war, Malfoy had served three years of house arrest at the Manor, but Harry was sure he'd seen him around the Ministry in recent months, doing … whatever he did. And while Harry would've taken a _Crucio _in the back before he admitted it even to himself, he nevertheless really, _really _wanted to know what this 'whatever' was. For purely professional reasons, of course – he was an Auror, after all. Right? _Right!_

**°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°**

Harry landed in the memory with a small jolt of disorientation, finding himself in the familiar taproom of the Leaky Cauldron, next to Hannah behind the bar. He decided the position was a good vantage point for observation and leaned casually against the back wall, safely out of the way. Turned out Hannah had a good eye for detail – probably a necessity in her job. The pub was full, but not particularly crowded; the atmosphere friendly and convivial. 

A movement at the edge of his vision made Harry turn his head; he saw that the door leading into Muggle London swung open and in walked Malfoy. Harry took in his appearance; he was dressed in an unremarkable dark grey suit, suitable for either side. His hair was no longer as severely cut and styled and Harry thought it suited him, but there was something odd about the way Malfoy moved; it almost looked as if he wasn't in full control of his limbs, or maybe in pain. 

A slight hitch in the noise level made Harry frown; as his eyes followed Malfoy's progress, it was obvious that every patron who noticed his passing fell silent, if just for a few seconds, and there was more than one baleful glance sent at the man's back. None was overtly hostile, though.

Malfoy seemed unaffected by the momentary hush in his wake, but knowing him as he did, Harry suspected he was merely wearing the 'superior pureblood' mask again, the one that had always managed to rile him up in the past. However, the years after the war had managed to instil a degree of maturity in him at last. Not that he actually _cared _or anything, no sir, but Harry nodded in grudging approval. Contrary to their school days, Malfoy now wore that mask to avoid attention, not draw it to him as he chose a small, out-of-the-way table, unpopular because of its proximity to the Floo and the passage towards the public restrooms. When Malfoy sat down with a grimace, his movements definitely were stiff and somewhat jerky.

There was a minute distortion as Harry sped the memory up slightly, watching carefully for anything unusual; he slowed down the viewing again once he saw Hannah standing next to the small table.

"Malfoy," she addressed him. "What brings you here?" Her tone was neither overly friendly nor impolite; simply businesslike, publican to customer, ignoring the rocky history they all shared.

Malfoy replied in the same manner, yet with a hint of his old snark. "I’d like to have a drink or two. I believe that's the usual reason to be visiting a pub, isn't it?"

Hannah rolled her eyes. "For most people, anyway," she conceded. "Do you have any idea what _kind _of drink you want?"

Malfoy laughed without mirth. "Given the hell of a day I had at work, it'd better be something to get plastered on, if you must know," he said. "Don't care what, but make it cold and refreshing." He laid three gleaming galleons on the scarred tabletop. "And keep it coming for as long as this lasts." 

"Very well. Be right back."

Another tiny fast-forward and Hannah was back, carrying a tall, slender glass filled with a sparkling clear liquid over ice cubes and a slice of lime stuck on the rim. She placed it in front of Malfoy. "Here you go," she said. "Your three galleons will get you six of these in all."

A blond eyebrow rose. "And what, exactly, are these?" He ran a curious finger down the condensation coating the glass before picking it up to take a cautious sniff. Malfoy wrinkled his nose – in a way that Harry would vehemently deny he found cute if asked – when the tiny bubbles burst in his face, but it was quite apparent that whatever scent the drink had didn't tell him much if anything. "Hmm, obviously lime, juniper berries, alcohol … and something else. Care to enlighten me?"

Hannah tilted her head in compliment. "Good nose. It's a gin and tonic – a shot of distilled juniper liquor mixed with carbonated tonic water. It contains a small amount of quinine; that's likely what you couldn't identify." 

Malfoy pushed the glass away and frowned. "What is 'quinine'?"

"The Muggle term for Fever Bark," Hannah explained, a tiny smirk playing around her lips. "It's supposed to be good against leg cramps."

That was when Harry registered that both Malfoy's legs had been twitching constantly under the table ever since he'd sat down.

Malfoy shot Hannah a baleful look and forcibly stilled his jiggling knees. "You try climbing up and down ten-foot ladders in the legal Archives all day, retrieving and re-sorting scrolls and books," he muttered. "Plus carting them all over the Ministry and back again. I'm just sore from it, that's all."

"If you say so." Hannah graciously didn't mention that _her _job also involved a lot of time spent on her feet.

"Anyway," Malfoy continued, "there's no proof that Fever Bark really works against muscle spasms."

"Maybe not, but just on the chance it does, where's the harm in trying?" Hannah shrugged. "Besides, gin and tonic is really refreshing … and I can practically guarantee that the six your money's good for will give you quite the buzz." She waggled her eyebrows. "If you want them, that is."

Giving her a long, hard stare, Malfoy slowly raised the drink to his lips and took a sip. His eyes narrowed as he swirled the cool liquid around his mouth, then widened as he swallowed. Then he gulped down half the contents of the glass.

"Not bad," he conceded grudgingly. "Okay, keep them coming." 

Hannah grinned. "Sure thing. Enjoy, and I'll be by shortly with the next one." Swinging her hips just a little, she went back to the bar.

**°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°**

Once again, Harry sped up the memory, watching Malfoy for what was close to two hours in real-time; it was safe to do so because all Malfoy did was read the _Daily Prophet_ back to front, lingering over the sports section, order and eat a Cornish pasty, solve the crossword and work steadily through his half-dozen drinks. Finished with the last one, he then rolled up his paper and climbed to his feet.

As Malfoy slowly wended his way through the tables towards the Diagon Alley exit, Harry noticed that despite the rest the man was rather unsteady on his feet. Whether it was due to the alcohol he'd consumed or the muscular problems he'd displayed earlier, Harry couldn’t tell; it might well be a mix of both.

Perhaps inevitably, he collided with a rather non-remarkable wizard who'd jumped up from his chair just as Malfoy was passing by, making both of them nearly lose their balance. Malfoy caught himself on a chair back, blinked, squinted and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a single word, the other began to berate him and rather forcefully shoved him back. 

Malfoy staggered into someone at the next table, was roundly cussed out and pushed back towards the original aggressor … who met him with a hard punch to the stomach. Malfoy doubled over and tried ineffectually to fight back, to no avail. What had clearly been an accident devolved into an all-out brawl in no time at all, with several patrons ganging up on Malfoy who quickly went down under the onslaught.

That was when Hannah had sent her Patronus to summon the Aurors.

Smith-Rosier and her trainee partner had arrived within minutes, but the assailants seemed almost to vanish into thin air, leaving a groaning, battered Malfoy lying dazedly among the wreckage of spilled drinks, assorted glassware, two tables and several chairs. His nose was bloody, one sleeve of his suit jacket nearly torn off, and Harry could see a magnificent bruise forming already on his jaw.

As Malfoy was the only person involved in the brawl still present, Smith-Rosier followed protocol, took statements from everyone willing to do so, told Hannah to come by the Ministry the next morning to provide the Pensieve report Harry was viewing and Disapparated, dragging Malfoy along to the holding cells for the night.

**°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°**

The memory ended, and Harry left the Pensieve, shaking his head. The evidence was quite clear-cut; Malfoy hadn't started the fight, the cause was accidental, and the only thing Malfoy could conceivably be charged with was clumsiness.

_Unless idiocy was made a crime when I wasn't looking,_ Harry thought. Didn't Malfoy realize that chugging half a dozen gin and tonics in two hours would make him drunk as a skunk?

Sighing, he finalized the transcript, collected the lot and left the evidence room. He wasn't authorized yet to make any decisions, but his section head usually asked for opinions; he'd make sure that no blame would fall on Malfoy. For once, he truly was the wronged party.

_And maybe someone should teach him to be more careful with mixed drinks next time; they may not have the kick of Old Ogden's, but they'll get you soused just as good._

But of course, that was hardly Harry's problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (**A/N:** _Scriba_ is Latin for "Write!")


	2. Episode 2: Plain Water at the Drunk Tank, Ministry of Magic

Draco came to lying on a hard, narrow cot; he was cold, nauseous, had a raging headache and his mouth felt as if a Niffler had died in there and was left to rot. And going by the eager fumbling around in his trouser pockets, a living one was sleuthing through his clothes for Gold. His Galleons!

Draco shot up and groaned as his head collided with another wizard’s. Draco squinted, wincing when the light ramped up his headache. He could barely make out a familiar face. “Flint?” Draco blinked. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, man,” Marcus Flint said, fishing two Galleons out of Draco’s left trouser pocket. “Sorry, but these days a Slytherin who fought on the wrong side has to take any chance that presents itself.” He pocketed the two shiny coins without the slightest sign of guilty conscience. “How come I meet you here? You look like shit, man.”

“And feel like it,” Draco murmured, eyes still fixed on Flint’s pocket. Flint had always been a mean one, but stealing from a fellow Slytherin should be unethical even for his low moral standards. 

“What happened? Some holier-than-thou Gryffindors beating you up for the crimes of your parents?” Flint shifted and sat closer, poking Draco’s cheek which made him flinch from pain.  


“Get your fingers off me, Flint! What the hell-”

“So no gang of Gryffindors. I see.” Flint leaned back and narrowed his eyes at Draco. “Just war trauma, weak will and hurt pride. I can’t believe you let that happen to you. As far as I remember you ruled Hogwarts by fear in the good old times.”

“Well, I don’t remember them as exactly good times, but yes…” Flint was right. Life had been hard back then, too, and Draco had fought it with everything he had. 

“You look as if you are in dire need of practice. No one should beat up a Slytherin and get away with it. I can show you some tricks if you want.” Flint eyed Draco up and down. “No, even if you don’t want. You’re a disgrace for our House and I’ll change that, come hell or high water. Believe your old Quidditch captain, we’ll have you up and kicking in no time.”

That … actually sounded good. “Yeah, whatever,” Draco said. He’d spied a jug and two plain pewter goblets near the door and went to retrieve both on unsteady feet. It was just water, but Draco didn’t care; all that mattered was that he now had the means to quench his raging thirst. 

Flint tutted. “You don’t sound very determined. But don’t worry, I know the perfect motivation. Do you know The Broken Wand in Knockturn? That’s where I spend my evenings since our kind is not well received in reputable pubs like the Leaky or the Broomsticks.”

“Never heard of The Broken Wand, where is it?” Knockturn was at least as long and winding as Diagon. He quaffed more water, draining more than half the jug even as he ignored Flint’s mocking expression.

“Oh, no worries.” Flint waved nonchalantly. “You’ll find it if you really want to.”


	3. Episode 3: London Fog at The Broken Wand

Draco entered the damp warmth of the Broken Wand and enjoyed pressing his way through bodies heated from alcohol and hot-headed discussions. Cloaks as wet and cold as his own dried on the hooks near the entrance or were thrown carelessly over chair backs, adding to the already high humidity in the pub. The foggy darkness of a bone-chillingly cold November night clung against the grimy windows, trying to adorn them with flower-like frost patterns stubbornly melted away by the smoke-belching fire in the grate. No Floo access here, unless you wanted to risk getting choked by soot, but that was Knockturn Alley for you. 

Not that Draco cared overmuch; he was tired, exhausted and pissed as hell after yet another unjust reprimand by his supervisor and fusspot supreme, Chief Archivist Obadiah Bagshot. Just because he’d accidentally dropped and dented a case of medieval Welsh scrolls … He violently pushed the thought away, to deal with tomorrow. Tonight, he needed to forget the drudgery his life had become and what better way than to get rip-roaring drunk? Determinedly, he made a bee-line for the bar, intent on buying enough drinks to help him achieve that goal. 

He took the first few steps into the taproom where the crowd parted before him like water before a sharp bow. Draco sneered; for a change, his reputation as a former Death Eater served his purpose well. Outside of Knockturn, his fellow wizarding beings were still suspicious of his motives and never let him forget that he still bore the Dark Wanker’s Mark — no matter how much he regretted his youthful idiocy. He strode on, eyes on his favourite stool at the bar, and just when he reached it the weedy little wizard occupying it tossed a handful of change on the bar and slipped away, throwing a frightened glance at Draco who didn't care to smile or even nod his thanks.

Florence "Flossie" Dalrymple, the barmaid who knew how to keep conversations and drinks flowing, stood near a table a few feet away. She was clasping four or five empty beer tankards in each hand and cackling about a joke Draco hadn't heard. And likely would've found inane anyways, given the vacuous features of the wizard who - going by the way he was drooling over her jiggling, half-bared frontal assets - was after more than just making her laugh. Well, Flossie was certain to oblige him to judge by the way she thrust her gaping bodice at him … providing he offered her enough coin. 

Flossie's laughter stopped as if cut and was replaced by a displeased frown as she turned around and her eyes met Draco's. She quickly strode back behind the bar and dropped the tankards into the sink where a limp rag was perfunctorily washing up the constant stream of dirty glassware and crockery. Flossie wiped her hands down her spotted apron, then stemmed them on her ample hips. "Malfoy,” she spat. “Didn't I make it clear the bleedin' uvver day yor no longer welcome 'ere, isit? Yor too much Barney Rubble for the chuffin' few drinks yer can afford. I won't stand by and watch yer trash the chuffin' Broken Wand again, i'n it? So go away, guv!" Belligerently, she stared him in the eye and jerked her chin at the exit.

Draco leaned back on his stool, his smile as cold as the November snow outside. He rubbed his knuckles that were sore and scabbed from the bar fight he'd provoked a few nights before, and the one before that, and the one the day before _that_. Actually, he couldn't remember when they had last fully healed. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Floss," he drawled. "Your beau over there," he raised a mocking eyebrow, "won't appreciate it, given he's obviously not the brightest candle on the cake. I'd even say he'll be swamped. Give me a drink or two and I'll be out of your hair again like that." He snipped his fingers. 

“‘E’s not me ‘beau’," the barmaid scoffed, put her hands on the bar and leaned towards Draco until their noses nearly touched. "And no, I won't play yor game tonight. Nice givin’ it a go, but no." 

Draco smirked. “Are you sure?”

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a polished golden Galleon and flipped it up in the air. The large coin turned and twisted, glinting in the light of the fire and the candles flickering in the rusty chandelier above their heads. It caught the eye of everyone around the bar, and an audible mass-exhale of bated breath accompanied the dull thud of metal hitting wood as it fell onto the beer-stained counter. Frowning in indecision, Flossie stared greedily at the coin.

"You have my word," Draco said into the expectant silence. Or relative silence, as the rest of the room was still filled with chatter and the clink of glasses. “No fighting.” He surreptitiously crossed his fingers; he wasn’t _spoiling _for a fight, but if the opportunity arose … all bets were off.

She glared at him even harder but in the end, when his smile didn't wane, she sighed, picked up the Galleon and let it fall into the coin pouch strapped to her belt, making a big show of not giving him back any change. "One drink, right? And then yer leave." 

Draco smiled a tad more warmly and made sure to meet the gormless wizard's gaze when he grasped Flossie's wrist. "Three,” he bargained. 

Flossie growled under her breath as she pulled her hand away. "Two," she relented with a scowl. "Fen yor out, or I'll poison the bloody next." 

“Agreed.” So he’d just have to make the drinks count. He shrugged mentally; over the past months, he’d become something of an expert on all things alcoholic.

“Hmph,” Flossie grunted, sending a smirk at her prospective john. “So wotcher want, guv? Firewhisky?”

He pretended to think. Given the bad weather and near-freezing temperatures outside, it was what most wizards would go for. But Draco wasn’t ‘most wizards’, and he knew exactly what he wanted: something chilled to battle the stifling heat inside the bar and yet packed a good punch.

“No, thanks. Can you make a London Fog?”

She squinted. “Never 'eard o' it. Woss in it, then, eh?” 

“One part absinthe to seven parts gin over crushed ice, with a twist of lemon peel.”

“Absinthe?”  


Draco wagged a finger in mock disapproval. “Tut-tut, Flossie — didn’t you pay attention in potions class? It’s a distilled infusion of wormwood.”

“If yer say so,” she shrugged. “Yeah, can do. But might 'ave me a while; I'll 'ave ter cop some from th’ apothecary, tho’.”

He waved her off and settled more comfortably on his stool. “Take your time. I’ll just thaw out in the meantime.” 

Flossie sent one of the urchins loitering about to Slug and Jiggers; he was back in under fifteen minutes, handing her a small flask of clear green liquid. Grabbing a bottle of gin from under the counter and a somewhat shrivelled lemon from a basket at the rear, she reached for an earthenware goblet. 

Draco stopped her just in time. “Use a glass, please?”

“Woss the bleedin' difference?”

“It looks prettier,” he replied, deadpan.

She rolled her eyes. “Toffs. Lord ‘ave mercy. That's w’ I 'ate 'avin' blokes like yer in 'ere. But whatever.” She fished a glass out of the sink and even waved her wand over it, leaving it much cleaner than most other vessels in the bar. Next, she poured some water into a shallow bowl and with a muttered spell Transfigured it into several uneven lumps of ice, daring Draco to complain. He smirked and shrugged, so Flossie took a small ladle from a drawer. “Is that awright?”

Actually, it was a lot bigger than the tablespoon the recipe called for, but it meant Draco would get a double- or even triple-sized drink for his money, so … “Yes, that’s fine.”

Despite appearances, Florence Dalrymple was an excellent bartender. She showed a deft hand at preparing the drink, measuring first the gin, then part of the ice before adding the absinthe and stirred gently, turning the mixture a pale, milky green before dropping in the rest of the ice. Lastly, she draped a strip of lemon peel over the rim and shoved the glass at Draco, silently challenging him to find fault.

“‘Ere.”

He tipped it towards her in salute. “Nicely done,” he said and raised it to his lips. 

The first sip was heaven. Cold, dry, sharp, the drink managed to wash the taste of dust and bitterness from Draco's tongue. Sighing in pleasure, he drank some more, enjoying the tang of licorice and bite of high-proof spirits as he tuned out his surroundings and lost himself in reflection.

When he'd accepted the only job offered to him after the war - archivist at the Department of Legal Literature and Records in the Ministry - he'd hoped to find a way to appeal against his father's sentence. The trials had been held in great haste, the Ministry wanting to get as many Death Eaters behind bars at Azkaban as quickly as possible, more than likely creating procedural errors en masse. At least that's what he'd expected, if not quite hoped. 

However, after having gained knowledge on legal procedures wide and profound enough to rival the best barristers in the country, he’d had to face the facts: No mistakes had been made. His father would die in Azkaban, while his mother was slowly fading away, troubled by memories and nightmares and increasingly unable to distinguish them from reality. 

And Draco himself - he curled his lip as his taste buds caught a hint of citrus - would wander the labyrinthine shelves filled with rows upon rows of brittle scrolls and tomes heavy like gravestones until he would end just as yellowed and brittle as the parchment contained within either. If he didn't die of boredom before he turned 27, which was a likely scenario. Nobody trusted him, in the public's mind he was still a Death Eater like his father, so it came as no surprise that people never asked for his advice. Nor was it welcome when given undemanded; a brief exchange about the weather counted as a conversational highlight these days. 

The mind-numbing routine of collecting lists from all departments, loading and unloading the book trolley as he shoved it along dim aisles lined with volumes that all looked the same except for a different Roman numeral on the back, handing out texts and re-shelving them back in their correct gaps after return made each working day seem to last for an eternity. Not to mention the sheer physical exertion which had caused his muscle tremors in the beginning.

Another sip, the ice chilly on his tongue, sent his blood faster through his veins. A subtle glow spread on his cheeks, his fingers tingled where the cold was forced back by hot blood, and he came to the same conclusion as every night: After his youth spent under the pressure of meeting his father's expectations, the years at Hogwarts characterised by the enmity and rivalry with Potter, the months lived in mortal fear and peril when the Dark Madman had operated from the Manor, and not to forget the war, he’d come to need the rush of danger and adrenaline to feel alive.

At least he was no longer a coward.

He lifted the glass to his lips again and searched the dimwit's eyes over the rim. Watery blue and red-rimmed, they met his with the unfocused stare of the half-drunk. Draco put his glass down and ran a long pale finger down the side through the diamond droplets of condensed water, slowly, like a lover's caress. 

Then he moved his stare, slowly, deliberately, so the other could follow, to Flossie who was measuring mead, blueberries, orange peel, honey and a few other ingredients into a lidded jar. Her whole body was in motion as she stirred and shook the mixture, and Draco let his gaze wander from her jiggling breasts down to her swaying hips. Dimwit's's face was pure red rage when Draco looked back at him again, one lone brow arched. 

Draco allowed a slow sharkish smile to curve his lips as he started on his second drink. The alcohol pooled heavily in his stomach, radiating zings of heat all through his body. He had no interest whatsoever in Flossie, but enjoyed himself immensely, feasting on his little scheme to wind up that brute. This was so much better than trudging listlessly through cheerless book-lined corridors, the stillness only disturbed by the creaking of the trolley's wheels and the grating, whiny voice of his supervisor! 

This was feeling like control, like being the master puppeteer in this whole miserable play called life. Time to step on the stage and have some fun. 

Draco tossed down the rest of his drink, now watered down by the molten ice-cubes, and slammed the glass on the bar. He sought his chosen victim's eyes again and reached for the silver clasp at his throat. It opened at the light pressure of his fingers and his cloak slid from his shoulders. He stood up, his movement mirrored by his fist-clenching opponent. 

"Malfoy, you promised!" Flossie hissed as he stepped away from the bar. "I warned yer!"

Draco flashed her a dazzling smile over his shoulder. "Oh dear. Fair play is for Hufflepuffs, not for Slytherins." Still, he angled towards the door.

The crowd had parted for the brawny wizard just as obligingly as for Draco, but the other's way to the door was shorter. So when Draco stepped out of the pub, his nose exploded with a firework of stars and scarlet as the wizard slammed his fist into Draco's face. 

Ah, the sweet call of danger! Draco's nose puckered with receding pain, blood running hotly down over his lips and chin. He grinned, shook his head, ducked the next blow as Marcus had taught him. This was it, this was feeling alive, this was _feeling_. 

Draco danced away from the other, light-headed, light-footed, a trail of red splatter marking his way in the snow. The dimwit came at him, shoulders at his ears, head thrust out like a bull, and Draco made way for him like a matador. Pivoting on one foot, Draco aimed a forceful kick at the other's arse that sent him to the ground. 

The wizard groaned as his full front hit the slush. Draco knew what was coming, it always went like that when those brawny types realised they had underestimated Draco because of his lithe form. Fists first, then wands. That's why he'd left his at home. 

Besides, it was so much more satisfying to best the fools who thought merely drawing a wand ensured their winning. These imbeciles had _no _idea.

He watched his opponent's hand with curiosity - what would it be? Sleeve-holster? No, too posh for a brute like that. Thigh-holster? Too auror-ish. No, someone as ordinary as this moron usually carried their wand around in a— 

Right, a belt-holster. Just when the wizard closed his fingers around the grip of his wand, Draco jumped. Jumped, and landed on the wizard's arm, twisted and sharply stomped on the carved length of wood. The man’s enraged scream almost drowned out the satisfying sound of crushing wood. This was better, and so much more hellacious than Potter's boring signature spell. _Expelliarmus_ was for sissies. 

Breaking wands, however, had a much more final character - and aside from practically rendering Draco’s opponents helpless usually was enough to knock the fight out of them. A wand was like an extra limb, after all, and most of the times, breaking it meant also breaking the wizard's spirit. Or at least some of their fingers. In both cases, the fight was usually over.

Unfortunately, Dimwit-the-brute wasn't clever enough to understand that simple principle. Breaking his wand had only turned him from an angry bull into an angry roaring bull. He reached up with his unbroken hand, pulled at Draco's waistband and kicked his legs away from under him. 

The last thing Draco saw before his head hit the cobblestones was a livid Flossie dispatching yet another of her ubiquitous urchins with a shouted command to fetch the Aurors. 

_Well, shit._

**°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°**

Harry locked up after the medi-wizard who routinely checked all drunkards brought in by the duty patrols to spend the night in the holding cells for serious injuries. “Will he be alright?”

“Nothing a good night’s sleep, some solid food and a Restorative Draught with lots of water wouldn’t cure. When he wakes up, he’ll probably feel like something no self-respecting Kneazle would drag in -- you know, nausea, headache, plus all of the bruises, but that’s it. This time, anyway.” The medi-wizard yawned and showed his tea-stained teeth. “Double shift, sorry.”

“What do you mean, this time?” Harry asked.

“Oh, he’s a regular. Usually, he looks even worse. The scrapes and bruises will look like my Great-aunt Sophronia's tangled embroidery yarn tomorrow and he'll feel like he's been mauled by a Hippogriff, but … a month ago, I’ve had to fix some broken ribs, and don’t even mention his knuckles. For a guy who regularly gets into bar brawls, he’s woefully bad at it, if you ask me.”

“Does he…” Harry shook his head; he really didn’t want to know. “Thank you.” Instead, he walked the man to the door, then returned to the cell and watched the sleeping Malfoy through the bars. Malfoy looked as if he had gone through some rough times since Harry had viewed the bar fight in the Leaky in Hannah Abbott’s Pensieve report. 

His hair was longer and could use a trim, which somehow made Malfoy look fragile. Maybe because he’d lost weight and his now sharply-defined cheekbones enhanced his resemblance with his beautiful mother. His cloak was still the same but looked worn and in desperate need of a Cleaning Spell. The same was true for his boots. Malfoy’s clothes were of very fine quality and must’ve been expensive when he’d bought them. Yet, he treated them like rags that were not worth the dirt under his shoes. 

Curled up under the heavy, grey blanket, Malfoy looked peaceful, like a sleeping child. A neglected, dirty and unkempt child waiting for someone to take care of him. But that wasn’t Harry’s problem. Hardly. 

But he was an Auror, after all. And for an Auror, curiosity was considered a virtue. An essential virtue, actually, so by having a quick glance at Malfoy’s file, Harry would just be demonstrating how serious he took his job. And showing a little extra effort never hurt when you wanted to climb up the career ladder.

**°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°**

Twenty minutes later Harry sat at his desk with a steaming cup of tea and opened the thick file that came with a small box filled with labelled Pensieve vials. That evening in the Leaky must have sparked something in Malfoy, and nothing good because his file had doubled in volume since.

Harry skimmed through the new transcripts and protocols and couldn’t believe his eyes. 

Charge: Drunk and frequent and deliberate disturbance of peace resulting in property damage (_e.g. _demolition of furniture)  
Responding Auror: Zephyr Allacourt  
Location: The Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley  
Date: May 17, 2003; time: 10.49 pm  
Witness/memory provided by: Hannah Abbott, publican  
Participants: Draco Lucius Malfoy vs. unknown individual

**Ooº°°ºoO**

Charge: Denial of access because of frequent and deliberate disturbance of peace resulting in property and reputational damage  
Responding Auror: Belinda McDurmitt  
Location: The Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley  
Date: June 14, 2003; time: 10.37 pm  
Witness/memory provided by: Hannah Abbott, publican  
Participants: Draco Lucius Malfoy vs. unknown individual(s)

**Ooº°°ºoO**

Charge: Drunk and disorderly disturbance of the peace  
Responding Auror: Robert Holloway  
Location: The Broken Wand, Knockturn Alley  
Date: September 5, 2003; time: 10.18 pm.  
Witness/memory provided by: Florence Dalrymple, publican.  
Participants: Draco Lucius Malfoy vs. unknown individual(s)

**Ooº°°ºoO**

Charge: Drunk and frequent and deliberate disorderly disturbance of peace resulting in property damage  
Responding Auror: Zephyr Allacourt  
Location: The Broken Wand, Knockturn Alley  
Date: October 18, 2003; time: 10.29 pm  
Witness/memory provided by: Florence Dalrymple, publican  
Participants: Draco Lucius Malfoy vs. unknown individual(s)

**Ooº°°ºoO**

Charge: Denial of access because of frequent and deliberate disorderly disturbance of peace resulting in demolition of furniture and reputational damage  
Responding Auror: Robert Holloway  
Location: The Broken Wand, Knockturn Alley  
Date: November 15, 2003; time: 10.54 pm  
Witness/memory provided by: Florence Dalrymple, publican  
Participants: Draco Lucius Malfoy vs. unknown individual(s)

**°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°**

Harry closed the file and sighed. He'd known that Malfoy landed in the Ministry's drunk tank on an at least semi-regular basis, but to see it laid out in black and white like this was … depressing. He was arrested at least once a month, and Harry suspected that even the two-month hiatus between the last time he'd been kicked out of the _Leaky Cauldron _and the first fight at that bar in Knockturn Alley didn't mean he hadn't been brawling elsewhere; it just meant he either hadn't been reported or caught.

This was _not _good. Clearly, Malfoy needed help.

Harry sighed again and fought the impulse to throw the file across the room … or straight into his bin. Why was Malfoy always being so difficult? Something must be really wrong with the man because he always needed to take things to extremes and then relied on someone to save him. Harry remembered all too well when Malfoy was clinging to the top of a heap of furniture in the Room of Requirement, the menacing flames of Fiendfyre already licking at the heels of his boots. 

Harry dropped the file in a drawer that he slammed shut. To be fair, it had been Crabbewho’d actually cast the spell, but as neither of Malfoy’s bookends rarely drew breath without his say-so … it kind of was the _principle_ of the thing. If having saved Malfoy from the fiery demons had been difficult, getting him out of the fangs of impending alcoholism would be worse. But Harry had always preferred to be hanged for a dragon as well as an egg. To go big. To ask forgiveness rather than permission.

Mocking himself inwardly for the litany of clichés, Harry slowly tidied his desk, pushed back his chair, collected his mug and stood to leave, decision made. So yeah, he’d help Malfoy. Even if it killed him. At the back of his mind, he could almost hear a half-resigned, half-exasperated voice say, "it’s your saving-people-thing again, isn’t it."

He shook his head to clear it, snorted and turned away, muttering under his breath. "Shut up, Hermione."


	4. Episode 4: Gimlet at The Grim and Banshee

It was nice to get in out of the cold. Somehow the wind howling around the nooks and crannies of Knockturn cut through all layers of clothing, ignored any warming charms, and even slowed down one's thinking by freezing their brain. 

The Grim and Banshee, despite being located in probably the darkest and hindmost end of Knockturn, somehow reminded Draco of The Three Broomsticks. The black-spotted mirror behind the bar reflected the cosy - by Knockturn standards - atmosphere, the air smelled of smoke, Butterbeer and Firewhisky, and, this close to Christmas, also of Cherry Syrup and mulled wine. Even the scum of the wizarding world appreciated the seasonal touch, and Finella, the temperamental and curvaceous publican, was famous in certain circles for her moonshine gin and the pretty barmaids she hired from heaven - or hell, more likely - knew where.

Finella knew a bother when she saw it. "Evening, Mr Malfoy," she said as Draco sat down at the bar." She pursed her mouth and frowned as she detected the air of recklessness around him. “My, don’t you reek of trouble." Still, trouble or not, he was still a paying customer. "Try not to break any furniture tonight, for a change.”

"Well, maybe my Galleons can bring a smile to your face if my scent can’t," he said, attempting to smile as pleasantly as his half-frozen face allowed. These days, gold worked more wonders than magic. “Sell me a drink or two, lovely?”

"Drinks, yes; my soul, not," Finella said. “And don’t think flattery will get you anywhere." She beckoned to a young barmaid who was swishing her wand at empty plates on the various tables in the taproom, stacking and floating them in front of her. "Bonny!”

"Coming," the girl called, eyes narrowed in concentration. She was a cute little thing, not long out of Hogwarts. Her eyes, brown and flecked with gold, were free of the shadows of the war and a thick, wheaten braid hung over her shoulder. Only when the dozen or so plates were safely planted beside the sink did she look at Draco. Her hand went up to smooth a few wisps of hair behind her ears and Draco was eventually granted a warm and cheerful smile. 

"Hoo can Ah help, Finella?" she asked in a broad Scottish accent, glancing briefly at the older witch. 

"Take care of young Malfoy here," Finella grumbled. "Flossie from the Wand says he's a troublemaker. Have an eye on him while I'm in the kitchen." She disappeared through a small door in the back.

"Trooblemaker, huh?" the girl said with a wink. "Tae me ye look a perfect gentlewizard. Let's see, whit can Ah gie ye?" She eyed him up and down. "Hmmm, dressed in braw, black fabric, classic cut, thocht ye don’t seem tae ken an iron Spell. Pale face an'-" she met his gaze again, "fed-up eyes.”

It took a minute or two until Draco could parse her meaning; Merlin, the girl’s brogue was worse than McGonagall’s after she'd celebrated winning the Quidditch House Cup! But he understood she was commenting on his attire and his expression. Or something. 

Bonny pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in concentration again. “Ugly bruises, by th' way,” she added as if the fading marks from his last fight were the last thing to catch the eye about his appearance. Draco just stared back, showing no reaction.

"Ye’ll want a Gimlet," she finally said, thankfully in somewhat more proper English, and the smile returned to her lips. "Made o' gin and Rose's lime juice."

"I do, do I?"

"Och aye. You look as if ye prefer gin tae firewhisky ... and as if ye could use some fresh sweetness in yer life.” She reached up to the rack above the bar and took down two bottles. One was filled with a syrupy yellow-greenish liquid. "It’s called Rose's lime juice because it’s my several-greats-grandmother's invention," she explained as she pulled the cork and poured maybe a finger's breadth into a glass goblet. 

“Oh really,” Draco muttered. He wanted a drink, not a history lesson.

Oblivious to his indifference, the girl prattled on as she put away the syrup and filled the goblet with gin from the second bottle. "Granny Rose was a fearsome pirate. Do ye ken – back then, people used tae preserve whole lemons by picklin' them in barrels o' rum fer long hauls at sea aginst scurvy? Well, Granny Rose hated rum. One day, an alchemist runnin' from th' law took passage on her ship and he tol' her that lemon juice in sugar would do jes' as well. Her crew found it boring an’ mixed it with gin, which Granny liked, too, so when she sold her ship and opened a bar, weel …" She shrugged, plopped a small wedge of lime into the drink and served it with a smile.

He reached for the glass, but she stayed his hand with her own, her smile turning much less innocent. "The will to board and conquer still lies in th' family, by th' way." 

Draco smiled back, charmed against his will by her ingenious approach. If he were into girls, he would grab that sweet piratess and Disapparate with her to a more private place without hesitation, but … "I'm sure that would be an exceptional experience, but … no, thank you. I already have an appointment tonight." He gently shook off her fingers, raised the goblet to his lips and took a sip of the Gimlet, which _was_ an exceptional experience. Mild gin in perfect harmony with tart lime, perfectly set off by the sweetness of the syrup-like juice.

"Och, do ye?" Bonny covered her disappointment by putting the bottles back on the shelf. "With whom?" she asked in her straight-forward manner and scrutinised the female patrons in the room. 

"I wish I already knew…" Draco said and studied the present wizarding folk as keenly as she. Nobody stuck out, none of the middle-aged or elderly wizards and witches looked like they were fit enough for a fight. Beggars and pickpockets, united in the wish for a quiet evening after a rough day. Well, the night was still young and one never knew… the shady folk usually dropped in later.

"My compliments to Granny Rose," he said and lifted the glass to take another sip. It never reached his lips but was knocked from his grip by a big fist that looked somewhat familiar.

"Knew I would find you here. Where else could you go after Flossie kicked you out for good?" Watery blue eyes, a face red with rage, and more Draco couldn't see before another blow split his lip. 

"Still carrying around those shiny Galleons, clever boy? You owe me a wand, you know." The next hit pushed Draco from his stool and he staggered backwards into the parlour. A quick glance over to Bonny showed she had no fear; seemed there was too much pirate blood running through her veins to not get excited by a fight. "Come on, Mr Malfoy, lit heem hae it!”

Draco smirked, tasting salt and iron on his lips. Trouble had found him, what a nice change to previous nights! He raised his brows and bowed mockingly. "Bonny, meet my appointment. Mr Dimwit."

He made a come-hither gesture at the seething wizard. "You want my Galleons? Then come and get them!" Boringly predictive, Dimwit came at him with a roar and the dance began.

This time Draco lasted longer, dancing in and out of the brute's range, ducking most blows and goading him with slaps on the back of his head and kicks to his backside. He enjoyed himself immensely, trading quips with Bonny who replied with some salty Scottish pirate curses worth remembering. Seriously, Draco hadn't had so much fun in weeks! 

Until his cloak caught on one of the crude wooden beams supporting the ceiling. Dimwit seized his chance and started choking Draco with his own cloak. Flailing, Draco tried to open the clasp at his throat, but much too soon interesting black and red patterns whirled before his eyes, almost blinding him, and once again it was win or lose, live or die. 

Fighting with everything he had was all he knew and now that all chances of regaining the life he once had, unable to help his parents who were both lost in their respective prisons whether made of walls or by their own mind, there was nothing left to fight for. Only life itself. 

He clawed at the cloak's collar, but it only cut deeper and deeper into his neck. He smiled again, blood flecking his lips and running down his chin. He let go of the clasp and reached into his pocket, fumbling for a Galleon and flipped the coin into the air. It rose high and higher, reflecting the light of the flickering torches, and painted a nice pattern of golden specks and shadows on the ceiling. 

Meanwhile, that familiar big, meaty fist reappeared in Draco’s narrowing vision and snatched the coin out of the air. Then there was silence. Peace.

"Mr Malfoy? Mr Malfoy?" Pirate Bonny had come to his rescue. The pressure at Draco's throat let up, but the black spots had already conquered the red. Bonny's voice faded away, the kaleidoscopic colours spiralled faster and faster into endless dark. 

"Mr Malfoy? Mr Mal-"

**°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°**

Harry clenched his fist in chagrin as he took in the bloody streaks marring Malfoy’s gaunt cheeks. Already, a fresh bruise was forming around one tightly-closed eye, and there were deep purple marks around the pale throat. Someone had tried to strangle Malfoy.

"Burke, call a medic," Harry instructed his partner, a rather scared-looking trainee. He hated having to take a rookie into the depths of Knockturn Alley, but all the senior Aurors working the nightshift had been called into Muggle London when a whole shipment of Chizpurfles destined for potion ingredients had got loose on the docks. As the crab-like pests were attracted by electricity, they could cause serious trouble if not immediately contained. It was still early and supposed to be a quiet night, which was why Harry, another junior Auror and two trainees had been left on call at the DMLE.

"R-right away, Auror Potter," Burke squeaked and cast his Patronus. The speckled chicken looked rather wobbly, but it bobbed its head agreeably when Burke sent it on its way.

He quickly catalogued all visible injuries; it looked as if Malfoy hadn't sustained more than a bloody nose, maybe a couple of loose teeth, and that soon-to-be-spectacular shiner, but those strangulation marks were worrisome.

"Good call, Auror Potter," Medi-witch Gupta told him as soon as she'd Apparated in and made a cursory examination of the still-unconscious Malfoy. "I don't think it's too serious, he'll just have a very sore throat for a few days, but one can never be too cautious. I'll take him to the infirmary; you can collect him when you're done here."

"Right, thanks," Harry told the short, middle-aged woman. "Burke, go with Madam Gupta; you can book Malfoy once he's been seen to. Then start on the report – time, location, and so on." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I'll try to get a statement about what happened … if I can find someone willing to talk, that is."

"Yes, Auror Potter," Burke mumbled, looking relieved that he could escape this rather sinister place. He watched as she fastened a wooden disk to Malfoy's chest and tapped it with her wand. "Portkey in twenty seconds."

Burke meeped and made a grab for the medallion. "Good luck, sir!" was the last thing Harry heard when all three popped out of existence.

Turning towards the rickety door of the Grim and Banshee, Harry squared his shoulders and drew a deep breath. Time to find out what kind of mess Malfoy had got himself into this time.


	5. Episode 5: Breakfast at McMillagan's

Harry propped his arm against the bars of the holding cell and watched Malfoy sleep. He’d lost count of how many mornings he’d done so during the past months. Ron was already joking about him spending his nights with Malfoy. A thought worth pondering, though Harry would never admit this. Inviting the man for tea and breakfast would only trigger more comments from Ron, but Harry’s heart ached at the sight of Malfoy’s haggard appearance. At least this time he hadn’t started the fight. There also was no damage, so there was no reason to keep him in a cell.

“Stop staring at me, Potter,” Malfoy mumbled, his eyes still closed. 

Harry wasn’t surprised that his ‘guest’ knew he was there. “Upsy-daisy, Malfoy,” he warbled cheerfully. “It’s morning, you get to go.”

Malfoy groaned and futilely tried to pull the tatty blanket over his head. “Go ‘way.” 

Harry smirked when he noticed the flinch Malfoy couldn’t quite hide. _Served him right._

“Seriously, Malfoy, come on. Time for you to leave the premises!” 

“Ungh.” Slowly, the blond head emerged from its cover, with dark smudges under eyes sunk deep into pasty-white cheeks. Oh yeah, that would be some hangover.

Deciding to be charitable, Harry made a spontaneous suggestion. “You know what? Let’s have breakfast. I can’t watch you starve to death.”

Two slivers of glittering grey stared back at Harry. “What do you mean, breakfast?”

“Uh, that stuff you eat first thing in the morning? You know, the usual -- porridge, eggs, bacon, tea…” Odd question. 

“Oh, you mean _food_ breakfast. Not the potions and pills your medi-wizard usually forces down my throat when I wake up here.” Malfoy swung his legs over the edge of the cot, sat up and immediately hid his head in his hands. “Ugh. Yeah, okay,” he groaned, struggling to his feet. “You’re buying.”

“Okay,” Harry replied agreeably, earning himself a suspicious look. “At The Leaky?”

Malfoy shuddered. “Bite your tongue. No. I know just the place.”

Half an hour later they entered a tea room just off the entrance to Knockturn Alley. 

“Draco Malfoy! My dear boy, you look awful! Come, sit down by the fire, I’ll fetch some tea.” An old witch bustled forward to pull a small chintz-covered armchair from a table to the grate. 

“Young man, please help him sit.” She ushered Harry forward who grabbed Malfoy around his bony hips and half-carried him to the chair. 

“Thank you, Mrs McMillagan,” Malfoy croaked and stretched his legs towards the fire. “You always know how to revive my broken spirits.” 

Harry blinked, looking from Malfoy to Mrs McMillagan, unable to believe his eyes or ears. Here was furniture-crushing pub-scare Malfoy, and there was this lovely old lady who looked like McGonagall’s twin, only with brown eyes and a less stern demeanour, fussing over the man as if he were the most charming person in the world.

A whiff of lavender announced another old witch whose face was wrinkled and rosy like a baked apple. “And who is this friend of our fine young man?” she asked and hurried to Mrs McMillagan’s side to inspect Malfoy for any harm. 

“That’s Harry Potter, Mrs Faggle. You might’ve heard of him,” Malfoy drawled from the depths of the thickly-cushioned armchair. 

“Oh, Mr _Potter_!” The two old witches gushed. “Oh, thank Merlin.” 

“Well, erm, hello,” Harry said, not sure whether to sit down, too, or to leave. 

The lavender-exuding witch waved her wand at another armchair and called over her shoulder, “quick, Milla, get everything ready! This is the one we’ve been waiting for, I’m sure!” Then she tugged Harry out of the way as the armchair slid across the wooden floor until it skidded to a halt beside Malfoy’s. “Sit down, Mr Harry Potter.” She patted his arm. “Sit down!”

“Breakfast will be served in a trice,” Mrs McMillagan said. “But, tea first!”

“It’s our motto, after all,” Mrs Faggle tittered.

Bemusedly, Harry complied.

Tea was served the old-fashioned way, loose-leaf, letting the dregs settle at the bottom of each cup. It was hot and strong and as soon as Harry and Malfoy had emptied their cups, Mrs McMillagan - Milla, obviously - snatched them away and stared at the patterns that had formed as if her life depended on what she would see there. 

Harry found himself holding his breath, having no inkling of what was going on. He was too busy fighting off unpleasant memories of Professor Trelawney’s predictions of doom and gloom in Divination class. Well, he would play along as long as this _Milla_ wasn’t going to tell him a Grim was lying in wait for him outside. 

After a while, Mrs Faggle whispered into the lavender-heavy silence. “What do you see?” 

Mrs McMillagan looked at the cups from this angle and that, then nodded. “Two long, winding alleys meeting in the end. But also many possibilities to take a wrong turn. Chances for a happy ending are good, yet nothing is certain.” Looking disappointed, she put the cups down. 

Mrs Faggle’s face fell, but she rallied quickly and clapped her hands in forced cheerfulness. “Well, let’s have breakfast then. The world is always a brighter place when one’s belly is full.”

That prediction proved true, Harry told her several servings of scrambled eggs, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes and the best sausages he’d ever tasted later. Even Malfoy looked invigorated, warmed up by the fire, and also by numerous cups of tea and more food than Harry had ever seen Ron wolfing down. 

Pleasantly full at last, Malfoy and Harry finished their last cups of tea and stood. Malfoy took a few Galleons from his money pouch, but neither Mrs McMillagan nor Mrs Faggle would accept them. 

“Nonsense, dear boy,” the ladies told him quite firmly. “Another time, you may pay what it’s worth to you.” 

“But surely—”

He was cut off with a stern look from Mrs McMillagan and a beatific smile from Mrs Faggle, who closed his fingers firmly around the coins.

“No. Not today.”

Harry recognized the futility of further protest. He nudged Malfoy’s side to make him stop and thanked the ladies. “This was one of the best breakfasts I’ve had,” he said sincerely. “I’ll be sure to recommend your tearoom to my friends.”

“Oh, Mr Potter! You are too kind!”

Harry smiled. “No more than you, ladies. Again, thank you.” He gave a short bow, then grabbed Malfoy’s elbow and all but dragged him out.

“Malfoy,” he said once they were back on the cobbled street, “these two old ladies really care about you. They treat you like a favourite grandson and would surely miss you if you disappeared from their lives.”

Malfoy squirmed. “Maybe. So?” 

“So why do you risk your life almost every night in one of the dives on Knockturn?” Harry huffed. “The medi-wizards said you won’t have long if you don’t stop drinking and getting your bones broken. Skele-Grow gets you only that far, you know.”

Malfoy’s eyes rested on Harry for a tad longer than was comfortable. “I know.” He looked up and met Harry’s gaze. “I’ll think about it.”


	6. Episode 6: Hitting Rock Bottom at The Dragon's Lair

"You sure about this?" Auror Nettles asked his partner as they exited The Dragon's Lair, a seedy dive at the back end of Knockturn Alley.

"Yeah," Harry sighed, twitching his wand to adjust the _Mobilicorpus _he'd cast on Malfoy. After all, he'd passed out from the bottle of hooch he'd drunk, not from being beaten to a pulp as usual. "Can't very well leave him here, can I?"

Nettles' eyes narrowed as he gauged Harry's reaction, then shrugged. "Your call. What are you going to do with him?"

"Bring him to my house," Harry admitted reluctantly. "My house elf used to belong to his mother's family, so I'm fairly certain he'll look after him until I'm off duty."

"Right." The older Auror adjusted his cloak. "Okay, how about this – I'll file the Pensieve memories into evidence while you stash him and we'll meet at the briefing?"  


"Works for me," Harry agreed. "And thanks, Max – I'll owe you one."

Nettles quirked a grin and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Yes, you do, Potter. Just be quick about it, okay?" And he Disapparated before Harry could do more than nod.

**oOoº°°ºoOo**

"Kreacher!"

Harry carefully manoeuvred Malfoy's unconscious floating form up the stairs even as he called for the ancient elf. He was almost at the door to the guest room before Kreacher popped in with a muted 'Crack!'.

"Yes, Master?" the elf croaked.

"You know Draco Malfoy, don't you?" 

"Kreacher is knowing all true Blacks," Kreacher replied. His bullfrog voice held equal amounts of awe, glee and suspicion. "What is being wrong with Mistress Narcissa's son?"

Harry rolled his eyes. Kreacher may have accepted him as Sirius' heir, but that didn't mean he'd completely lost his prejudice towards non-Blacks – or non-purebloods, for that matter. However, as long as that prejudice helped the situation, Harry wasn't averse to using it.

"He's drunk," Harry said curtly. "And I need you to take care of him." He drew a deep breath. "Put him into bed and watch over him for now; I still have work to do and will be back as soon as possible. You know what to do?"

There was a light in Kreacher's rheumy eyes that had been missing for a long time as he snapped his fingers, taking over Malfoy's limp form. "Kreacher is having lots of practice with bad Master Sirius," he muttered, opening the bedroom door with another snap. "Yous be going now."

Harry grinned and shook his head. First Dobby, now Kreacher … whatever had he done to deserve this? A question that had to be left for another time, though; first, he had a shift to complete.

**oOoº°°ºoOo**

He made it barely in time, sliding into the seat Nettles had held for him only seconds before Squad Leader Blishen started the end-of-day briefing.

"Nettles, Potter, report."

Nettles elbowed Harry's side, earning himself a disgruntled look. 

"Yes, sir." Harry tried his best to ignore that his insides were churning with worry. Unloading Malfoy into Kreacher's care at Grimmauld Place wasn't exactly protocol and might well bite him in the arse if he wasn't careful. Also, the elf might be devoted and eager, but very definitely getting on in years. Given the downward spiral Draco had been on for over a year now, the situation was … less than ideal.

He squared his shoulders and tried to focus, doing his best to ignore the other Aurors in the room.

"Shortly after our shift started, Auror Nettles and I went on a routine patrol in Knockturn Alley. The situation was normal until we noticed a commotion at the lower-most end. Someone apparently had stolen one or more unidentified objects at the pawnbroker's and was running up the stairs into The White Wyvern. We gave pursuit, but the person made it into The Dragon's Lair; we lost them there."

Blishen frowned. "Dragon's Lair? Never heard of it."

"Not many people have, sir," Nettles spoke up. "It's kind of a new backroom to The White Wyvern. You can either enter through the main bar or through a side entrance on that short cul-de-sac at the very end of Knockturn."

"The one they've named Carne Alley, right?" Blishen made a note on the parchment before him when both Aurors nodded. " Okay. We'll have to check that out. Any reason why you didn't stun the thief?" 

Harry and Nettles exchanged a look. "The person was cloaked, so we couldn't identify them. The staircase was too narrow; we never could get a clear shot. And once we came into the Dragon's Lair… there was a brawl, right in the middle of the taproom. Which is _tiny_," Harry explained. "What's more, there were maybe a dozen spectators milling around, egging the fighters on, and they blocked our way. We barely saw the suspect exit through the door leading into Carne Alley before it fell shut."

"Also, the barman, one Thaddeus Murk, asked us to break up the fight before the place was trashed or someone drew a wand. As long as we were already there, so to speak," Nettles added.

Blishen harumphed. "That his only reason?"

"The only one he gave us, sir." Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "To be honest, he didn't seem overly concerned about someone possibly getting injured, and the brawlers didn't appear to have more than a few minor cuts, scrapes and bruises."

The Squad leader raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. Did you notice any illegal activities?"

"Apart from the fighting as such, no, sir. Those patrons who were still sober enough to Disapparate without splinching themselves did so as soon as Potter and I stepped in; also, a couple unfortunately made it out the doors before we could stop them," Nettles said. "I think I may have caught a whiff of mugwort, but between the torches, spilled alcohol, several smokers and the fact that pretty much everyone was in dire need of a bath, I couldn't be sure."

Harry grimaced. "The general atmosphere was still quite hostile, sir. With just the two of us and without a clear crime scene or warrant, the risk of escalation seemed disproportionally high. But we took the names of everyone still present once we secured the premises," he said, handing over a small scroll. "Although I doubt anyone on that list would make a reliable witness." 

Blishen quickly perused the scroll, pausing at one name near the bottom. "Draco Malfoy – now there's a surprise. How many fights has he started now?"

"I lost count, sir," Harry said. "But to be fair, he actually _didn't _start the one at The Dragon's Lair last night."

"Not directly, anyway," Nettles muttered.

"Is that so. How exactly does one start a fight_ indirectly_, pray tell?" Blishen asked sarcastically. 

"Malfoy was falling-down drunk on rotgut gin, sir," Harry said. "From what Murk, the barman, told us, after downing a full bottle he was merely running his mouth, throwing out insults. Someone took exception to something he said, someone else didn't, one word led to another, and, well …" He shrugged. "But he never threw a punch." 

"That must've been some insult if perfect strangers came to blows over it."

Nettles gave Harry a sideways look. Harry stared straight ahead, doing his best to look unmoved.

Their Squad leader wasn't fooled. "Well, gentlemen?"

Nettles nudged his partner, rolling his eyes when Harry didn't react. "Apparently Malfoy made some … rather disparaging remarks about Auror Potter, sir," he replied neutrally. "As in, his appearance and magical ability."

"He what?" 

"According to one witness, Malfoy started by calling me a speccy git with a rat's nest for hair," Harry huffed. "Nothing he hasn't called me to my face hundreds of times before. I stopped taking notice before we even left Hogwarts." He grimaced. "Things, uh, kind of went downhill from there." 

"He also said that _Expelliarmus _was for sissies," Nettles murmured. 

There were a few shocked gasps, until someone at the back of the room drawled, "Well, it sure worked well enough for Potter, didn't it?"

Most of the other Aurors started to snicker among loud murmurs of "hear, hear!" Max Nettles guffawed as Harry ducked and blushed while even Squad Leader Blishen fought to hide a grin. He then finished taking Harry and his partner's report and went on with the rest of the briefing.

**oOoº°°ºoOo**

Harry came home to the sight of Malfoy bent over the commode, seeming to retch up his innards, with Kreacher fidgetting next to him, wringing his spindly hands. 

"Uh-oh."

The elf stared reproachfully at Harry. "Master Draco is being sick," he croaked. 

"Yeah, I can see that," Harry murmured. _And hear, and smell it, too, _he thought. _Ugh! _He fought the impulse to either cover his ears or his nose, casting a furtive Bubblehead Charm on himself instead. Thus fortified, he sidled into the bathroom and waited until he was finished. When Malfoy finally stopped heaving and lifted his head, he tapped him gently on the back.

"You done for now?" Harry asked.

Malfoy just shuddered and moaned piteously.

"That's what I thought," Harry muttered, shaking his head. He was oh-so-tempted to tell Malfoy it was his own fault he was feeling so wretched but didn't want to risk getting hexed. Then he remembered that Malfoy never took his wand on his drinking sprees … and he honestly didn't think he'd be capable of wandless magic. Still, better to be safe than sorry. 

"Come on, Malfoy, get up." He tugged on one shoulder.

"Doan' wanna," Malfoy slurred, blearily squinting at Harry with watering, red-rimmed eyes.

"Tough luck," Harry replied. "Up and at 'em!" He slid his hand under the nearest arm and tried to lift him. "A little help here, Kreacher?" 

"Yes, Master Harry." Kreacher gestured, and Malfoy became almost weightless. Harry succeeded to get him more or less upright, slung one limp arm over his neck and wrapped his free hand around Malfoy's waist, staggering a little until he found a workable balance for both of them.

"Okay, let's get you back to bed," he murmured, turned and slowly shuffled towards the guest room. Halfway across the landing, he remembered that it would've been easier to levitate the man … or let Kreacher do it. Well, too late for that now; he couldn't reach his wand anyway, and he didn't want to drop Malfoy. 

Of course, the feel of Malfoy's body pressed against his side, clad only in thin cotton pyjamas, had nothing whatsoever to do with his reluctance. Neither did the surprisingly sweet scent of the silver-blond hair, nor the hot breath wafting against his throat. 

Still, for a moment Harry wished … he _wished. _Very much.

_No. Nonononono. NO!_

With that cleared up, Harry resolutely manoeuvred Malfoy back towards the bed, which Kreacher obligingly smoothed and turned back with a few more snaps of his fingers. Carefully, Harry lowered his burden onto the mattress, fumbled for the duvet and pulled it up to Malfoy's chest. 

"Kreacher, bring up some water, please?" he requested of the elf. "And fetch some hangover potion from my bathroom cabinet? Draco's going to need it in the morning," he added under his breath.

"I's already brought it, Master Harry." Kreacher pointed at the vial standing next to a pitcher and glass.

"Hmm, yeah. Thanks." Harry knew he really should be going; Malfoy was lying quietly on his back, but his head was thrashing a little on the pillow and his moans, while quieter than before, hadn't stopped yet. Surely he needed a bit more supervision – just for a little while, until he was safely asleep? Of course he did. Only how—

"Master Harry be wanting dinner?" Kreacher asked. "Stew be ready soon."

_Oh, thank Merlin. Perfect._

"That's great, Kreacher, thanks. I'll be down in a few minutes," Harry said. "I'll stay here until then." He barely heard the muted 'crack!' as the elf popped away to the kitchen. He knew Kreacher would alert him when his meal was ready; until then, he'd indulge in one of his favourite pastimes … looking at Malfoy. Or rather, at _Draco_.

At least here, in his own house, he could do so without appearing to be a stalkerish creep; the one time he'd watched Draco sleep off his latest binge in the drunk tank, he'd almost got caught by the medi-witch on duty. As it was, he'd had to do some pretty fancy verbal footwork to explain why he had stood staring into the cell for half an hour, face pressed against the iron bars like a small child in the zoo.

Madam Gupta was _still _giving him odd looks whenever word spread at the DMLE that Malfoy had been booked drunk and disorderly again.

Harry sighed. Despite their improved relations since their amicable breakfast a few weeks ago – and how unexpectedly pleasant had _that _been? – he was very much convinced that Draco would never return the feelings he'd developed for him. Nor would he appreciate the dreams Harry had been having recently. Fantasies of the two of them sharing breakfast again, only not in a café, but in the kitchen here at 12 Grimmauld … even better, in the parlour, maybe the garden … or, best of all, in Harry's room. In bed. Together. Nak—

Draco moaned loudly again, yanking Harry abruptly back into the here and now. Startled, Harry bent forward, laying a hand on the sweaty brow. 

"Draco?" Harry asked, unable to mask his concern. "Are you okay?" He winced inwardly; of course, he _wasn't _okay; any idiot could see that. Draco's skin looked paper-thin and had a greenish-grey cast to it, much worse than any time he'd seen him after one of his too-frequent binges. He clearly was in a lot of discomfort, would feel even worse come morning, and most likely deeply resent the fact that it had been Harry who'd once again seen him at such a low point – worse even, helped him get out of his latest predicament. 

Also, given their rather tumultuous history, Harry was certain that Draco was never going to reciprocate his feelings. Ever. They would remain Harry's deepest, most hidden secret.

**oOoº°°ºoOo**

A trembling hand suddenly fisted in his shirt with surprising strength and pulled him down on top of Draco. 

"What the fuck?" Harry yelped, shocked.

"Draco, are y—mmphhhhh!" Whatever he'd intended to ask was lost when Harry unexpectedly found his lips taken and sealed by a hot, insistent mouth. Less unexpectedly, his brain short-circuited an instant later. 

A moist tongue demanded entry, and instinct took over. Harry's lips softened, opened, and his own tongue tangled with Draco's as he yielded to the kiss. For long moments, all Harry could do was feel as his whole body ignited with need. 

The kiss only ended when they both were running out of air. Harry was awash in sensation, panting, dizzy with joy and hope as he lay across Draco's heaving chest. Even their hammering hearts seemed to beat in the same blissful rhythm.

Then an almost indistinct sound intruded.

"H'rry," Draco mumbled. "M'H'rry …" 

"Yes, Dray," Harry breathed, giddy to find his dreams come true. "Yours."

"Mmmm. Niiiishe." That so, so soft mouth wandered across his brows, almost nudging his glasses askew before moving upwards into his hair. A pointy nose began to nuzzle his messy locks and Harry laughed soundlessly when he heard a soft sneeze. "Ticklesh." 

"Sorry." Harry grinned, feeling not sorry at all, and sought a place to caress with his own lips, finding it under Draco's chin. He gave the slightly-scratchy patch of skin an experimental lick, discovering a pleasant softness underneath the stubble. He wiggled a bit for a more comfortable fit in Draco's arms, sort of assisted by Draco's fumbling embrace. His blood was humming as Draco's hands began to roam across his back and the sleepy, slurry voice uttered a rambling litany of words. "Closesesfffffff", "wanyuh" and frequent repeats of "H'rreeee!" were the only ones that made any sense at all, if Harry's mental translation of his name, "want you" and "clothes off" was correct. 

Harry nibbled down the column of Draco's throat, one hand drifting down towards the elastic waistband of his pyjama trousers. A clumsy wiggle and thrust of slender hips indicated enthusiastic endorsement of Harry's plans. He felt the hardness of another, more slender column nudge his palm and nearly swooned. Not only was his dream of finally getting up close and personal with Draco coming true, he was also getting endless teasing material in listening to the near-incoherent mumbling. It was quite the contrast to Draco's usual, precise speech, but Harry found he liked it. A lot. He chuckled softly as his fingers closed around the heated flesh.

_Who knew Draco was such a cute and funny drunk?_

**°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°**

A bucket of glacial ice water couldn't have had more effect on Harry once that thought penetrated the haze of bliss and burgeoning desire flooding him. He froze.

_Draco is drunk._

Reluctantly, Harry stopped his amorous oral assault on Draco's neck and slowly lifted his head. He took in the flushed cheeks, the goofy expression and slack, panting mouth. Draco's usually sharp, grey eyes were hazy and unfocused, all of which added up to one and the same thing. 

_He. Is. Drunk._

_Plastered. Sloshed. Shit-faced. Wasted. _

Harry shuddered. Hermione would've been proud if she knew that a veritable thesaurus of words was running through his brain – all of them synonyms that led to a single, inescapable conclusion. 

Draco was both physically and mentally impaired by alcohol. 

And Harry knew, both from the training he'd received as an Auror as well as some personal experiences, that Draco was in absolutely no state to consent to what Harry had been about to do. What he desperately _wanted _to do, especially as in that very moment, one of Draco's hands cupped his right arsecheek, making Harry's cock jump in eager anticipation. 

Horrified, Harry jerked back.

"NO!"

"Yesh," Draco contradicted him in a still-slurred voice. "Wannafckya."

_Yes, PLEASE! _shouted the part of Harry's brain that had lusted after Draco for far longer than he'd ever admitted to himself.

"W-we c-can't," he stammered.

"H'rry?" Draco looked utterly bewildered. "Don' go," he pleaded, reaching for him with unsteady hands. 

Scrambling away from the bed – and temptation – as fast as he could, Harry pressed his back against the door, desperately trying to control his thundering pulse as well as his raging hormones. 

"No," he repeated, attempting to sound far more determined than he actually felt.

"But—"

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered brokenly. "I'm not going to—no. Just no." He fumbled for the doorknob behind his back, giving it an almost savage twist once he found it. He nearly lost his balance when the door swung open but managed to catch himself just in time. Only with utmost effort did he manage to step outside into the hallway. 

Turning one last time before he fled, Harry felt as if he was dying inside when Draco's expression shifted from confusion to hurt until he looked utterly lost. Then the door snicked shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (**A/N:** According to [evergreen: Plant Profiles in Chemical Ecology](https://sites.evergreen.edu/plantchemeco/mugwort/), Mugwort is used in some cultures as a hallucinogenic. Otherwise, it's an herb used against various complaints and/or ailments (see WebMD, Wikipedia _et al._)


	7. Episode 7: Corpse Reviver No. 2 at 12 Grimmauld Place

Harry stumbled into the kitchen after having spent a miserable, sleepless night. Much to his surprise, Draco was already there, sitting at the table behind the remnants of a light breakfast – tea, orange juice, toast and traces of what might have been a poached egg on his plate. He stiffened at Harry's entrance, but wouldn't meet his eyes. 

After several minutes of awkward silence, during which Harry had prepared his own breakfast, he finally offered a hesitant "Good Morning" to Draco.

He probably should have expected the scathing look he received in return, but was unprepared for the disgusted "Really, Potter?"

His cheeks burned. "I'm sorry," Harry murmured, staring into his teacup.

"For what?" Draco asked coldly. "For ruining whatever's left of my self-respect? If so, apology _not _accepted."

Harry winced. "No, I—"

Draco spoke over whatever he might have said. "Or are you maybe, in your very own, uniquely vexing and annoying way, trying to apologize for existing? In which case I've got to tell you it's no use; as far as I'm concerned, you're inexcusable!"

"Draco, I—"

"Don't you _dare _use my name, you coward!" Draco shouted. "You ran away when I tried to give you everything I've left to give!"

Harry slumped and buried his face in his hands. "I had to," he muttered shakily.

"Dragonshite!" 

"It's not," Harry protested. "Seriously, Drac— Malfoy," he amended at the furious look sent his way. "Trust me, the last thing I _wanted _to do was turn you down …"

"Then why did you?" Malfoy sneered. "You rejected me – _again_. Just like that first time on the Hogwarts Express." He snorted. "Granted, back then I was an entitled little shit who didn't know better. Maybe I deserved it."

_No 'maybe' about it, _lay on the tip of Harry's tongue. He swallowed it down with difficulty, knowing that if he didn't he'd lose whatever argument he might make before he even started.

Luckily, Malfoy didn't notice, just ranted on. "But now? I thought we'd moved past all that drivel. What possible reason could there be? Or is it that I'm just not good enough, not worthy of the Great Harry Potter? The Chosen One, our Saviour? Because I made the biggest mistake of my life when I let the Dark Moron put his Mark on me? Trust me, I know!" He clamped a hand around his left forearm, where Harry knew the faded remnants of the skull and snake marred the pale skin. "All because I trusted my idiot of a father," he spat. "Guess that makes me an even bigger idiot." 

"That's not it at all," Harry protested. "It's just—"

Again, Malfoy ignored him. "Don't bother, Potter. You made yourself very clear last night," he said. "The other day, at McMilligan's … I thought there was something, something we could maybe build on, but … looks like I was wrong. And that's fine. I can live with it."

Based on what Harry had seen over the past year or so, he wasn't too sure. But before he could do more than open his mouth, Malfoy went on. 

"Just do me a favour? Don't come after me; don't try to _save _me. Don't do any more favours for _me_," he said in a way that sent chills down Harry's spine. "On second thought, there's one thing you _can_ do for me," he went on, his expression as bitter, hopeless and regretful as it had been years ago during their confrontation in the Room of Requirement before Crabbe unleashed the Fiendfyre. 

"…Yes?" Harry replied warily.

The lips Harry could still feel pressed against his own twisted in a harsh smirk as Malfoy turned to go. "Go fuck yourself."

**oOoº°°ºoOo**

Harry felt his temper snap. Acting purely on instinct and a rush of adrenaline, he jumped up, took a couple of large strides, grabbed Malfoy's shoulder, whipped him around and slammed his back against the wall.

"Shut up," he snarled, right into the shocked, pale face. "Just shut. The. FUCK. up! You're making some arsehole assumptions about things you know _nothing_ about!"

Malfoy tried to shake free, but was no match for Harry's Auror-trained strength and reflexes. "Let go of me!"

"No," Harry hissed, shaking Malfoy once with every word. "You'll stay and for once in your life, you'll bloody well _listen_!"

Malfoy felt his breath catch in his throat. He'd believed he'd seen Harry in every imaginable mood, but never quite like this – almost incandescent with fury, green eyes shooting sparks despite the obscuring lenses and his magic crackling around both of them almost like a living thing. "O-okay," he agreed, rather shakily.

Harry was gripping him so hard, Drac was sure he'd have bruises later. But it was Harry's voice, rough and husky, saying words that hit him with the force of a dozen rogue bludgers.

"Yes, I refused – _not _rejected! – you last night. But not because I didn't want you, you bloody moron! I've never wanted anything, or any_one_, more than I wanted you!"

_What?_

__"Then … then why did y—"

Harry shook him again. "You were _drunk_!"

_Well, yeah._ Dutch courage, and all that rot; Draco had needed it. "If I hadn't been, I'd never …"

"Exactly," Harry said, visibly trying to calm himself by drawing a deep breath. He released Draco, taking a step back and looking at him as if that one word explained all.

Not to Draco, who shook his head. "I don't understand." 

Harry groaned and ran both hands through his hair, making it even messier than usual. "It means that you were hardly in a condition to make sensible decisions – or 'so far under the influence of liquor that your passions were visibly excited, your judgment impaired, your brain so far affected by alcohol that your intelligence, sense-perceptions, judgment _et cetera_ were not under normal control'," he said.

Draco blinked. "You did _not _just come up with this yourself!"

Harry grinned fleetingly. "No."

"Granger should stop making you read a dictionary," Draco murmured, still confused. "That was all kinds of wrong." 

"Wasn't Hermione," Harry admitted. "I was quoting from the Auror Handbook. Well, paraphrasing, actually, but … do you get the point I'm trying to make?"

"Not really," Draco confessed, shaking his head. Big mistake; he winced. "My head's still killing me."

"I know I left one of Potage's Hangover Potions on your nightstand; didn't you take it?"

"Ugh, no."

"Why not?" Harry wondered. "I mean, I know they taste horrible, but …"

"Potage always gets the ratio of lemon and honey versus ginger completely wrong," Draco murmured. "Most commercial potions go heavy on the ginger anyway because it helps against all kinds of nausea, but I've found it makes me feel even worse. So unless I can brew my own, I prefer to go without."

Kreacher popped in, bearing a crystal glass Harry recognized from a cabinet in the front parlour, the wide flat bowl filled with a milky liquid that reeked strongly of gin. He handed it to Draco with a glare he normally reserved for Hermione. "Your remedy, Master Draco," he croaked, fairly oozing disapproval.

"Or I'll have one of these. Thanks, Kreacher," Draco said, draining the glass with a few long swallows. He gagged and shuddered when he was done, then met Harry's eyes. "Corpse Reviver No. 2," he explained. "A concoction made of equal parts gin, lemon juice, vermouth and orange liqueur, with a dash of absinthe. Rather aptly named, actually."

"If you say so," Harry replied dubiously. "Why No. 2, though?" 

"Because the original version used cognac instead of gin as the main ingredient. You're supposed to have the same kind of liquor in it that gave you the hangover. I was drinking gin last night, so …" He shrugged.

"Ah," Harry said. "That's what Muggles call 'Hair of the dog' – as in, 'the dog that bit you'. I think." 

"Ew. Sounds disgusting."

"Yeah, kind of," Harry agreed, wondering privately how they'd moved from shouting and hurling accusations at each other to having a really rather civilised, polite conversation. Which reminded him …

"We've got side-tracked," he said with a sheepish grin.

"How could we not since you decided to throw incomprehensible quotes at me?" Draco quipped, more than a hint of his usual snark colouring his voice.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Okay, let me give you the dunderhead version," he said. "You were completely smashed – literally falling-down-drunk. I wasn't. And while you may _think _you knew what you were doing, _I _don't believe you did."

"I'm fairly sure of my own mind, Potter," Draco said. "It's not for you to make decisions for me without my consent."

"But that's the point," Harry exclaimed.

"What is?"

"Consent." Harry sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. "Look, do you even remember what we were doing before I stopped?"

A slow smile curved Draco's lips. "Oh, quite vividly, despite what you may think. We were kissing – with some rather interesting, and most importantly, _mutual_, results, by the way – and you were just about to venture into some even more interesting territory on my body when you suddenly bolted, for no reason I could discern. Leaving me quite frustrated, on top of my nausea, I might add." 

His smile became a smirk when he noticed the deep flush staining Harry's cheeks. "That's what _I_ remember. How about you?"

"I remember the same things," Harry admitted, unable to hide the huskiness and longing in his voice. "Leaving you there was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do."

"You did not _have to_," Draco objected. "I was perfectly fine with where things were going!"

"Maybe," Harry conceded. "And if I could've been sure we wouldn't have gone past a few kisses and maybe a handjob, I might have continued. But what if we'd gone further?"

"You mean, what if we'd fucked?" Draco asked bluntly. "Afraid I couldn't take it, Potter?"

Impossibly, Harry's blush deepened. "Yes." He swallowed. "And no. For the record, it wouldn't have mattered who'd been on top; I'd have been equally fine either way."

_Ooh, interesting! _"Then why _did _you stop, if not for that reason?" Draco wanted to know.

Sighing once more, Harry leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms over his chest while he gathered his courage. Then, he met Draco's brooding gaze with a frank look of his own.

"I didn't want to wake up this morning and find out that you had regrets," he said softly. "Whether it was over what we might have done, or whether we had done anything at all." He paused for a few heartbeats, then continued. "I wanted it – wanted whatever you were willing to give. But I could not risk that you would resent me afterwards for taking anything you might not have offered if you'd been sober."

There was a wealth of pain and disillusionment in the quiet words. To mask the sudden discomfort they caused him, Draco took refuge in his usual way. "Sounds as if you're speaking from experience," he snarked.

Harry shrugged. "Ginny," was all he said.

_Ouch. _ The one word shouldn't be enough, but somehow it was. "Long story, huh?" Draco asked.

"Very long story," Harry confirmed, then dredged up a smile. "Maybe I'll even tell you someday."

Draco's heart soared. Maybe not everything was lost, despite last night's fiasco. "Someday will do fine," he agreed. 

Harry's smile grew a little more genuine. "On one condition."

"I should've known," Draco groused, giving Harry his second-best glare. "Okay, what?"

Slowly Harry walked up to him, reached up and framed Draco's face with both hands. 

"Go home and sober up," he requested. "Think about whether this is truly what you want – whether you want _me_, with all the baggage I bring with me."

"Hardly worse than mine," Draco murmured.

"No." Harry's thumbs caressed the sharp cheekbones. "Once you've made your decision, and if you're absolutely sure you're in your right mind, then … if you still want this – me, _us _– then come back and tell me." He traced the soft lips with one finger. "Think you can do that?" 

Draco felt his heart beat a staccato rhythm inside his chest. This was more than he'd ever dared to hope; this was _everything_. For this much, he could wait … and work.

"I know I can," he said, his voice husky with longing. "And I will. Condition accepted."

Harry's smile had never seemed so bright.

"Then I promise I won't run."

**°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°°ºoOoº°**

The sun was setting in glorious colours over the London rooftops as Draco Malfoy walked down Grimmauld Place, stopping in front of Number 12. The old house looked better than it ever had in his memory, but the past didn't concern him.

He'd come to claim his future.

**oOoº°°ºoOo**

They faced each other in the library, two young men who'd known each other over half their lives. Green eyes met grey.

"Hello, Draco," Harry murmured.

"Harry," Draco replied, wondering briefly why they were so tongue-tied all of a sudden.

"It's good to see you again," Harry said at last. 

"Yes. Took me longer than I thought it would, but … here I am." Draco nervously licked his lips. "All rational and sober," he added softly.

"That's good. I'm happy for you," Harry said, coming a few steps closer – almost, but not quite within touching distance. "And … have you made a decision?"

Draco could clearly hear the hope in the quiet voice and felt a smile grow on his lips. "I have." 

Just to get a little bit of payback for Harry leaving him high and dry that long-ago night, Draco let the silence between them grow and linger. He would rather be hexed than admit it, but Harry had been right to ask him to fix himself first. He'd miss the rush of adrenalin his fights had given him, and sometimes he still craved the buzz from drinking too much, but when he weighed either against spending the rest of his life with Harry?  


There really was no contest.

"Damnit, Draco!" The impatient exclamation brought him out of his reverie.

"Yes, Harry?" he asked sweetly.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Merlin, you're such a git," Harry grumbled, closing the last bit of distance between them and pulling Draco into his arms. "I really hate you sometimes."

"No, you don't," Draco murmured into the messy hair, wrapping his own arms around the sturdy, muscular body. "Just like I could never hate you."

Harry drew back just enough to be able to look straight into Draco's eyes. "Then kiss me already," he demanded.

"It'll be my pleasure," Draco replied.

And it was.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** The (rather abbreviated) definition of a drunk/drunkenness was taken from [The Law Dictionary](https://thelawdictionary.org/drunk/). Also, the use of ginger against nausea, hangovers etc. is well-documented across the Web, for example [here](https://www.everydayhealth.com/columns/white-seeber-grogan-the-remedy-chicks/natural-hangover-remedies/) or [here.](https://www.over-ez.com/pages/hangover-cure)
> 
> Oh, and before I forget, the Corpse Reviver No. 2 is a Real!Thing, originating from the bar at the Savoy Hotel, London during the 1930s. (See [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corpse_Reviver))

**Author's Note:**

> The fic was inspired by and the title taken from [Crazy to Love You](https://youtu.be/sVA38Yu5AA4) by Alex Clare feat. Decco
> 
> Drinks found at [10 Essential Gin Cocktails](https://www.thespruceeats.com/essential-gin-cocktails-760133) and [Supercall](https://www.supercall.com/recipe/london-fog-cocktail) (London Fog)
> 
> Rose's Lime Juice is [a real thing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rose's_lime_juice)!
> 
> Translations into [Cockney](https://funtranslations.com/) and [Scottish](http://www.whoohoo.co.uk/main.asp). (The expression "Barney Rubble" references the character from "The Flintstones" and isn't really Cockney Rhyming Slang for "trouble"; it was just too cute to leave out!)
> 
> OC character names taken in part from the "Harry Potter Lexicon" and/or the HP Fandom Wiki; Flossie Dalrymple was inspired by [this song](https://youtu.be/lKmPxLkSqv8) by The Corries.


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